Snow
by Thalia Kendall
Summary: Two unlikely friends, a snow day, and a conversation-- winter fluff. Draco-Ginny one-shot


A/N: Just a random one-shot that I wrote for a friend recently, inspired (surprise, surprise) by the terrible weather around here. Hope it's not too bad.

Disclaimer: The characters belong to JKR. The snow belongs to Mother Nature, who is a bitch and a half. That is all.

~*~

They were truly the last two that anyone would ever have expected to have anything to do with each other, but perhaps both of them were rebels anyway.  
  
It had all happened at the beginning of his sixth year, really. Another altercation in the library, which had ended with her calling him a megalomaniacal snob with an ego the size of a Quidditch pitch, and then, suddenly, as a furious Madam Pince came over to investigate, she'd apparently had a moment of madness.  
  
The librarian had arrived upon the scene, all prepared to rain books upon their heads again, and had found Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley, of all people, sitting side by side, apparently sharing and quite immersed in the enormous volume _Olde and Obscure Magicks_. Ginny had glanced up to give her a sugary smile, and the librarian had walked off.  
  
It had been a matter of principle that he couldn't let a Gryff one-up him, and that she'd apparently included HIM in her efforts to get out of trouble was a bit disturbing, but not to be ignored. He was quite upset that he couldn't pick on her, until he realised what sort of evil genius lay behind the gingery hair and innocent little face. Then there was the added benefit of King Weasel's face turning a shade of burgundy previously only seen in a glass of Merlot. It had been astonishingly quick, really.   
  
Draco mused that perhaps Weaslette (as he was wont to call her, much to her annoyance) was becoming slightly Slytherinated. Wasn't it just the other day that she was found having a satirically friendly conversation with Pansy? Smirking at the thought of the nauseated expression on King Weasel's face when the latter had heard Ginny remark that she would eat with the Slytherins that day, he opened the door of the castle and stepped out into the snow, towards his intended target.  
  
The little Gryffindor brat was standing quite alone, in those shoddy threadbare robes that she always wore (as well as the incongruous expensive velvet cloak that Draco had given her for her recent birthday), under one of the silver-and-dark bare birch trees, the snow sifting through the thin, naked branches to land on her hair and eyelashes.   
  
Coming to a halt in front of her, he crossed his arms. "What the deuce are you doing out here in the snow, Weaslette? Sorry to say, but a red and runny nose would be even less attractive than a freckled one."  
  
Usually she would glare. Perhaps even stand on tiptoe and try to smack him upside the head. Today, however, she merely sighed, and stared out at the white-covered landscape.  
  
"Well?" he none-too-gently poked her in the side with a finger, grinning slightly when she squirmed and lurched against him. "What's the matter, my brooding heroine?"  
  
"Christmas is coming up," she told him, brown eyes meeting gray. He nodded slowly.  
  
"Astute observation there... now isn't this supposed to be a good thing? Gorging on lots of food and presents and decorations and that sort of treacly stuff?"  
  
She sighed again, before looking at him with a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Well. My father's gotten too much work recently to come home much. Bill and Charlie and Percy are all heaven knows where. Fred and George are probably going to stay with their shop and deal with last-minute customers. That leaves Mum, Ron and I, and Ron's going to be whinging about the Cannons' latest loss."  
  
"I see your point," he raised an eyebrow. "But what does standing out here in skimpy robes do to solve this problem? Aren't you... you know, _cold?_"  
  
"A little," she admitted, "But I wanted to think, and the Common Room can be a bit too loud."  
  
"Yes, and influenza is preferable to noise," he nodded sagely. "I know how that goes."  
  
"Stop being a prat," she giggled, "You're supposed to be patting my head and saying 'there, there, it shall all be okay, let's go inside now, dear'."  
  
"You don't have enough money to pay me to act like your mother, Weaslette." His voice was twined with subtle sarcasm, but he grinned to see her laugh again. "And the preferred terminology is 'sexy snarky Slytherin bastard'."  
  
"You just wait until I break in my new gloves and pummel you in a snowball fight," she told him sweetly, "I'll see how sexy you are when you have handfuls of snow thrown down your neck."  
  
"Oh, quite sexy," he replied, "Especially since that action would be followed by me tackling you to the ground and tickling you until you scream."  
  
"You know, Malfoy," she cocked her head to the side, red curls tumbling over one shoulder as she turned her face to look at his face, "many more of the veiledly sexual comments and people might get the wrong idea about you and me."  
  
"Would they now?" he gave her a challenging look, "And why would you say THAT?"

"What," Ginny's eyes widened, her voice quieting slightly, "What do you mean? I would have thought it was obvious -- we'd be -- they would think we were involved or something..."  
  
"But of course," Draco smirked down at her, noticing peripherally that her cheeks were crimson. Perhaps the wind, perhaps not. "But gossip is so amusing. I'm sure that the twittering idiots that are a few of your housemates and that giggly Ravenclaw delegation probably think that you, Pansy and I spend our Prefect patrols together as a threesome of lovers in the Muggle Studies classroom."  
  
She choked. "That's... your imagination is astounding, Malfoy."  
  
"I try my best," he said silkily. "Of course, right now, I'm just out here with the intent of backing you against that tree and having my wicked Slytherin way with you."  
  
She blinked rapidly, feeling uncharacteristically flustered, and tried to recover. "W-were you not the one who was remarking a few moments ago on the cold? I wouldn't recommend getting naked in this weather. And what brought on this... this new wave of innuendo?"  
  
"True enough on the cold," he mused, "Ah well, then maybe I'd just snog you or something and then drag you indoors. As for this new wave of innuendo... it's making you blush. Therefore, there are obvious benefits to the plan."  
  
"So this is just to embarrass me, ferret?" she glared at him, a bit of disbelief in her eyes, her hands balling into fists. "I HOPE that you can pull your head out of your arse long enough to understand that I'm _not_... I didn't think you saw me as..."  
  
"You're not bad-looking, you're rather entertaining at times, even, and besides, King Weasel would have convulsions," he cut in.  
  
"I'm NOT going to be your whore!" That angry statement snapped out, she started to run, red hair picking up with the wind.   
  
The second for him to realise what she must have thought was all it took for her to have a sizable head start, and then he ran after her, his longer legs gaining on her steadily. Even then, though, she was nearly back to the castle when he caught up, and pushed her (half-gently) against the wall, catching her wrists in his hands.  
  
"That's not what I meant," he said softly, almost beseechingly, "You got the wrong impression."  
  
"Oh?" she was still glaring at him, her face red, "Then WHAT did you mean?"  
  
"I'm... not quite sure," he started, feeling a bit awkward all of the sudden, "I mean, it's fun watching you blush. But... I don't know. How did you manage to Sort into Gryffindor anyway?"  
  
"What does that have to do with anything?" she queried, a bit mystified.  
  
He muttered something dour under his breath.  
  
"I couldn't hear, repeat yourself," she instructed him.   
  
"I despise most Gryffs," he muttered, two spots of pale pink appearing on his face, "And flirting or -- or _attraction_ is unheard of. So tell me Weaslette, what's this about you?"  
  
There were several minutes of shocked silence from her, and his hands on her wrists were just about to loosen when she finally spoke. "I... don't know."  
  
Her cheeks were still flushed, and her lips were parted in surprise. She was staring at him as though seeing him for the first time, but he noticed that the anger had left her eyes. She was looking up at him calmly, and belatedly, she started to smile.  
  
Finally, he spoke again. "I don't usually do this," he started quietly, gently tipping her face up with his gloved hands, "But would you run away or hate me if I kissed you right now?"  
  
She could feel his breath, cool but warmer than the winter air, caressing her skin. Somewhat comprehending that a mistake now would mean something irrevocably lost, she wondered if she should take the risk.  
  
But what was Gryffindor bravery for, anyway?  
  
She had barely given an indication of consent when he was pressing lips against hers, his hands sliding down from her face to her shoulders, then her back. It was a bit gentler than she might have thought, and she carefully reached up her own hands to his shoulders, pulling him closer.  
  
A kiss, more warm than passionate, perhaps because they were both still a bit unsure, but then again, he didn't think of her as one of those flirty, experienced, jaded girls... she was an innocent Gryff, a Weasley no less! A Weasley with soft hands and softer lips who made a purring sound in her throat when he brushed his mouth against her jaw...  
  
He pulled back to look at her, and she slowly, drowsily opened her eyes. "Let's go inside," she said all of a sudden.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I want to do it again, and I know that once or twice won't be enough, and if we keep on standing out here, we'll both get pneumonia."


End file.
